


the best kind of blasphemy

by togglemaps



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blasphemy, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Trope Bingo Round 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togglemaps/pseuds/togglemaps
Summary: Yusuf and Niccolo fuck in the Sistine Chapel. That's it. That's all that happens.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 133





	the best kind of blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

> I blame verymilkytea over on tumblr for this entirely. I sent her a DM saying I was going to write them fucking at Versailles and accidentally wrote Vatican and I was like, is that better? And she said: yes. Yes, that is better. (She also beta'd this for me for her sins, so thanks for that. *finger guns*) 
> 
> Could this have actually happened? Probably not. Do I care? No. Not really. 
> 
> Oh and Niccolo references 'weakness of the flesh' at one point here, which isn't a reference to internalised homophobia but that the official of the Catholic Church then (and...now, if you read your catechism, which I don't recommend) was that the only acceptable form of sex was sex for reproduction and that's it. Was this something they practiced? As it turns out, rarely, but guilt and shame are a time honoured Catholic tradition goddammit.

Michelangelo was asleep on a pile of paint splattered cotton sheets in the back of the chapel, hidden behind the altar. He had been working nonstop for weeks and his back and neck had finally given out. He’d cried while Niccolo had tried to massage out some of the pain, cursing the pope, the Medici and saving particular ardour for Donato Bramante. He had cried earlier too, for he could not stop until he was done, everything needing to be completed precisely at certain stages. 

Michelangelo was really a sculptor; to stand aboard scaffolding and paint frescos on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was a pain. Quite literally a pain, standing for endless hours looking straight up until he physically no longer could. He did not hate it so much as he might have, Niccolo knew, but it was not what he had come to Rome to do. 

“We should wake him,” Yusuf said, staring up at the unfinished ceiling with his head in Niccolo’s lap. “Make him return to his bed.” It was night now and Michelangelo had been sleeping for many hours. Michelangelo had hoped to do more work before the light was gone, but that had always been a fool’s dream. 

“Leave him,” Niccolo said. “He’ll probably work himself into a rage and not be able to sleep.” 

This was true. A priest sent by one of the cardinals to complain about the noise had been driven from the chapel a few days before by Michelangelo screaming at him from on high, like some kind of vengeful God. It was always a little amusing watching someone flee from a man who was so high up it would take him a very long time indeed to get to them. Michelangelo’s rage drove away both people and their rationality all in one go. 

“Do you think he’s a genius?” Yusuf asked. 

“Ask me again in a 100 years. Somebody else will probably have decided by then.” 

Yusuf snorted. “I’ll do my best to remember.” Yusuf turned his eyes away from the ceiling, his whole face softening as he looked up at Niccolo. “Thank you for bringing me here. It feels special, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know why you thank me. I hadn’t ever been to the Sistine Chapel before either. They wouldn’t have allowed a man such as myself such liberties.” 

“Really?” Yusuf grinned, sitting up. They kissed, both leaning towards each other at almost the same moment. Hundreds of years together meant reading each other wasn’t hard, not even here, beneath the eyes of God and Michelangelo’s frescoes. 

Yusuf’s beard scratched against his face, that wonderful, familiar feeling that told him this— _this this_ —was Yusuf, nobody else. Not rutting with another priest in the dark, not a shameful thing that he need cleanse himself of, this weakness of the flesh. 

But this was Yusuf. It couldn’t be wrong. It couldn’t be anything but destiny; them, together, made for each other, rising whole from the dead.

Still. 

This was a church. _The_ church. They choose the pope here. 

He considered protesting as Yusuf began pulling at his trousers, but that would have been an absurd thing to do. Dishonest, even. He didn’t really want him to stop. 

Yusuf swallowed him down and Niccolo slapped a hand over his own mouth—everything here echoed, it was too loud, too much, someone would hear— 

“Be quick,” he hissed, and he meant it to be quiet, but it wasn’t, and Yusuf held his hips to the floor, his grip hard and bruising. He pulled off to grin up at Niccolo like the demand had simply been a request, eyes laughing but not his mouth, thank fuck, because that would have been loud. 

Yusuf licked up from the base of Niccolo’s cock to the head, sucking it gently, and would this feel like a revelation every time for the rest of time? Because it did and it wasn’t the church around him or Michelangelo’s frescoes above him, it was Yusuf, only ever like this with Yusuf. 

The feeling of his cock in Yusuf’s mouth, of the one arm holding him in place as the other roughly pulled his trousers further down, just enough that Yusuf could force Niccolo’s legs apart and begin playing with his balls as he continued moving his mouth up and down. It was so much, his knees constrained by his trousers and his hips by Yusuf, his cock and balls being played like it was an instrument Yusuf had long mastered. 

He came down Yusuf’s throat, trying for quiet. “We’re going to hell,” he whispered to Yusuf as the other man pulled up Niccolo’s trousers and tucked him away. He then loomed over him, grinning, and pulling out his own cock. 

“It might as well be for something fun,” Yusuf said. “And not just all the killing.” 

“Do you want to fuck my mouth or do you want to talk about killing some more?” Niccolo grumbled. “Because it seems like you want to ruin the mood.” 

“You’re the one who mentioned hell,” Yusuf protested, still grinning. He grabbed on to Niccolo’s hair and pulled, hard. 

Niccolo gasped, his spent cock twitching, and stared up at Yusuf, who pulled him up to his knees. Yusuf was standing, cock held in one hand, the other still buried in Niccolo’s hair. “Look at where we are,” Yusuf said. “You should worship properly.” Niccolo nodded, his mouth open, gasping for air as Yusuf fed him his cock. 

He felt himself relax as Yusuf thrust, holding him in place. He sucked as best he could, his eyes watering a little and his jaw aching and his scalp throbbing. The idea that someone might catch them was gone now, lost somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Yusuf pulled out at the last moment, coming on Niccolo’s face. Niccolo moaned, groping himself roughly because he was hard again, ashamed and embarrassed and oh he could picture what he must look like, kneeling there with Niccolo’s come on his face and trying to come a second time, humping his own hand, completely desperate. 

Yusuf removed Niccolo’s hand and replaced it with his booted foot, nudging Niccolo’s cock around with it while Niccolo tried to get some friction. It took him only moments to come in his pants, Yusuf’s boot against his crotch. 

Niccolo was still panting and shaking, grabbing himself through his pants and whimpering, when Yusuf ran his thumb through the come on Niccolo’s face and pressed it up against his lips. Niccolo sucked the thumb in, licking it clean, as Yusuf mocked gently, “And you wanted to be quick.”


End file.
